Prisoner in Deep Confinement

Smell was the sense that constructed the borisin Warheads' sense of the world. Rain, dust, campfire, blood, medicine... From the deepest part of the battlefield, they came shaking and wafting, with a torrent of odors that flooded every inch of his neurons.

All he could smell now is the heavy sturdiness of the torture devices, and the cowering fear of the jurors filling the air.

He knows that these weak-fleshed judges are afraid of the sharpness of his fangs — He had stood on the precipice of a steep cliff, bathed in the moonlight of madness, and felt the instinctive impulse in his veins. He had followed the labyrinth of smells, penetrating into the enemy's camp in the darkness of a lightless night, and crushed the skulls of his prey one by one... The borisin Warheads admire the concept of polished fangs, regarding them as blades and spears, symbols of the power and confidence to tear apart anything.

"The borisin Brood Lord gnashed and gnawed on flesh, devouring the blood of innocents. He is sentenced to a lifetime in a cage with his face covered in a closed-mouth muzzle, convicted of the Ten Unpardonable Sins."

The Warhead contemptuously looks around — the swordsmaster who engulfed everything like an icy sea of fury is not there... He has no interest in this tedious sentence.